


Permission

by days4daisy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Extra Treat, First Time, Loyalty, M/M, Post-Thor: Ragnarok (2017)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-12-26 19:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18289130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Heimdall slides fingers through Thor’s hair and meets his gaze with full seriousness. “I would bed you, Thor Odinson,” he says, “with your permission.”





	Permission

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LuciferxDamien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferxDamien/gifts).



When Heimdall arrives, Thor stands before the mirror of his chambers. The little left of his drink forms a thin rim at the bottom of his glass. Thor is examining what was once his father’s eyeguard fixed to his own face. His fingers are mid-graze, and the room’s light catches the gold.

“It suits you,” Heimdall says.

From the mirror, Thor’s reflection smiles. “You’re not the only one to tell me so this evening.”

“It will please Prince Loki to hear he was the first." Thor’s shoulders shake with a soundless laugh.

“Have the healers seen to your wounds?” he asks.

“The healers work in shifts round the clock, but there is much to be done.”

“But have they seen to you?” Thor's one-eyed gaze sits soft but serious.

Heimdall nods. “The scar my leg bears will fade in time, but the wound is closed.” He takes a step closer. “And have they seen to you?”

Another smile. “Would you believe Loki saw to me?” Thor asks.

“You look better for it,” Heimdall observes. “Your face is not drawn, and its color has returned.”

Thor breaks their eye contact in favor of draining his glass. “May I offer you a drink?” he asks.

“You may, but I will not accept.” They stand shoulder to shoulder, looking at each other through the mirror. “You need rest,” Heimdall says.

Thor’s reflection lowers his head. “How can one rest at a time like this? After what we saw, what I…” He grimaces.

“It is not for me to tell you how to rests, but you must. Your brother has seen to your eye, but healing magic cannot rejuvenate your spirit. Your face is sallow. Your shoulders hunched. Your back curled as if you wear a mountain strapped across it.”

“I was unaware that poetry was among your talents.” Though he jests, it is true. Thor’s posture is heavy, as if his weight is held upright by invisible arms. “In my youth, I thought I understood the necessity of my father’s sleeps,” Thor says. “But never more so than now. I have not known a sorrow like this, even when my mother passed. It shames me, Heimdall. This despair is so heavy in my breast, and it will not lighten. Even with this ship's company, with drink, with you, I-" A kiss breaks his thoughts. Soft, brief, to drink-sweet lips.

Thor nods after the fleeting contact, an unasked question on the tip of his tongue. Whatever his searching gaze finds makes him sigh. “Thank you, my friend, but I would never ask this of you.”

“Have you asked anything of me?”

“No,” Thor says, “but I understand. You are most loyal, Heimdall, the dearest friend I’ve ever had. But I can’t-”

“Have you asked anything of me?” Heimdall repeats.

Thor regards him again, a long gaze more striking now with one eye than two. Thor is young yet to Heimdall, weighed down by burdens too great for a warrior with three times Thor's years. But Heimdall cannot recall any leader who believed they were ready, not in his own service or from his gift’s sight. This pain is too much, but it must be borne. There are none better fit to carry it than Thor.

Thor’s jaw clenches under Heimdall’s touch. Desire sprouts, Heimdall sees it in Thor’s flushed cheeks and the darkened interest of his single eye. But his gaze is weary too, bleared by a day from which there is no return.

“Come,” Heimdall says, a hand on Thor’s shoulder. When he retreats to his king’s bed, Thor’s tired steps follow.

Heimdall stops only when his calves touch the mattress. “I would kiss you again,” he says, “with your permission.” Though Heimdall sees much, he cannot be sure what emotion draws Thor’s tongue across his lips. Some new sadness touches his eye, blue like the waters of a home that will never be theirs again. Thor’s beard scratches Heimdall’s fingers when he nods.

Their kiss is gentle, though it lingers through the minutes. Heimdall runs fingers through Thor’s shortened hair. It once spilled down Thor's shoulders; now Heimdall only finds the bare nape of Thor’s neck. Thor shivers at the touch.

“I would undress you,” Heimdall says, “with your permission.” A quiet sound mumbles off Thor’s lips. He nods.

Bruises coat Thor’s skin like dull shading on a midnight sky. Heimdall’s body is also afflicted. With the healers taxed, only the most major of injuries have taken precedence. Heimdall grazes one purple blossom with a thumb. Thor does not flinch, but he does watch closely.

Heimdall’s own scars draw Thor’s frown. “We would have come sooner if we could,” Thor tells him. “Your bravery is beyond compare, Heimdall. How you led our people at the height of their despair is beyond my words to thank.”

Heimdall has no answer for this praise. His loyalty is to Asgard, any thought to the contrary is too foreign to fathom. He unbuttons Thor’s trousers and eases them down his legs. Heimdall bends to lower them to his ankles. From the floor, he unbuckles first Thor’s left boot, then his right. “Sit down,” he says.

Thor watches, aghast. “I can remove my own shoes,” he protests.

Heimdall cocks his head. “I said I would undress you,” he reminds. “Do I no longer have your permission?”

“What? No… I mean, yes, you do, but you don’t have to-”

“Sit down, my king,” Heimdall says, a hint of a smile on his lips. By Thor’s gaze, he is still clearly taken aback. But, stunned, he sits, restless hands on his thighs. With Thor off his feet, Heimdall is free to remove his boots and trousers. The boots, he pairs at the foot of the bed, and the pants he folds on top.

Crouched between Thor’s legs, Heimdall eases his thighs apart. His body fits well between Thor’s knees, a sensation his king seems to agree with. Thor’s cock already stirs, half-raised and blushed as pink as his choice of spirit on this night.

The kiss Heimdall presses to Thor’s chest seems to wrest from him some deeper urge. “Undress with me,” Thor blurts. The rush of words belies all maturity of his station. Heimdall hears the boy Thor once was, arrogant but lacking experience. Heimdall rises at his command and undoes his own trousers.

He stands before Thor, nude and unashamed. Warm hands frame Heimdall’s sides. Thor kisses his chest, mouth open. His breaths burst across scars of battle drawn long before his time. Thor’s hands descend to his backside. “You are beautiful, my friend,” Thor says.

“Is poetry among your talents as well?” Heimdall slides fingers through Thor’s hair and meets his gaze with full seriousness. “I would bed you, Thor Odinson,” he says, “with your permission.”

“Yes,” Thor answers. “You have my permission.” A tremor rocks his words. “How will you have me?”

It is an odd question, one that warms Heimdall’s chest with fondness. He cups Thor’s cheek and drags a thumb across his lips. “On your back,” he says, “so I may see my king's face.”

Thor nods, for a moment unmoving as he gazes up the length of Heimdall’s body. When he finally stirs, his strong body is slow. Heimdall reads the lingering soreness of battle, an ache that no healing can cure. He feels the same rawness in his own bones as he returns to Thor’s mirror. A bottle of rubbing oil sits on the cabinet. This, Heimdall carries back to the mattress, and to Thor, propped on a collection of pillows.

As Heimdall’s weight sinks into the mattress, Thor’s legs swing open in invitation. His cock bobs above his bruised stomach. Heimdall pauses with fingers on Thor’s ankles. “Have you done this before?” he asks.

Thor laughs in surprise. “Yes, of course. I am no virgin, Heimdall.”

“With a man?” Thor nods again. “And you have been bedded like this?”

Here, Thor pauses, a quiet look as he weighs his answer. “Not...quite like this,” Thor concedes. He is quick to add, “But you have my permission. I would share this with you, my friend, if you’ll have me.”

Heimdall smiles. “I will be careful.”

“There's no need-”

“I will be careful all the same.” Heimdall sets hands on Thor’s thighs. Careful, he urges them to spread. Thor's thighs form a generous bow. Though it is their first time knowing each other in this manner, Thor grins when Heimdall extends the oil to him. He dips a pair of fingers in. They emerge slick to the third knuckle.

Thor begins with oil dribbled along the head of his cock. Liberally coated, he spreads shine to the base in one smooth stroke. He seems to enjoy Heimdall’s eyes, a murmur of enjoyment and a subtle shift of his waist.

As Heimdall watches, he prepares his own hands with more oil than he would normally use. Heimdall pauses to make sure Thor’s gaze is on him before he strokes a single finger around the crown of his hole. A tight sound clenches behind Thor's teeth. “Are you alright?” Heimdall asks.

“Do you think so little of me?” A breathy texture underlines Thor's voice. “What cause have I given to make you believe I would quit so easily?”

“No cause, my king, but still a question worth asking.” Heimdall returns his smile. “Relax.”

He encounters natural resistance. Thor's body is rarely penetrated by steel or stone, let alone by the touch of another. Thor is warm inside, tightly spun but pliant. His flinches are more confusion than pain; a momentary puzzle, a shift, and a sudden give. Thor’s knees relax against Heimdall’s sides. Heimdall guides his hips and urges his weight to sink onto the single finger. Thor’s eye ticks wider. He gives his cock a firm squeeze.

Heimdall fills him with one finger, then two. Oil coats the rim of Thor’s hole and makes wet sounds with every thrust. New warmth colors Thor’s face as his body adapts. His hips twitch from the mattress, surprise stuttered from parted lips.

“More,” Thor says. “I’m ready.” Heimdall continues on as before. Thor’s body flutters around him, and frustration creases on his brow. “Heimdall-”

“Be patient,” Heimdall says with a firmer stroke to depths yet untouched. Thor’s waist jumps, and his head drops back. His neck, fully exposed, stretches long and thick. A perfect vantage for Heimdall to watch the slow bob of his throat. “You like this, I take it.”

“Yes, very much,” Thor agrees. “But it's not enough. It - mmm.” His thought dissolves behind a shuddering sigh. It is only when Heimdall eases his hand back that Thor’s words return. “I wish to feel you. Your strength, your power.”

“Quite the leap from two fingers on a single hand.” Heimdall’s teasing is met with an impatient chuckle.

Thor is a fine sight stroking himself. Thick as he is, his hand fits the size perfectly. Oil glosses his shaft, accentuating every ridge. “I am a fast learner,” Thor boasts, though he sounds more hopeful than confident.

Heimdall allows him a third finger. Thor’s thighs open wider, and his back curls without Heimdall's guidance. Strong though Thor is, his body has loosened impressively. His insides are soft and slick, giving with little effort. Heimdall delves deeper, until a strangled sound tears from Thor’s lips. A shudder runs through his body. Thor’s eye glazes over. “Oh,” he breathes.

Heimdall’s smile is fond. “I believe my king told me he was not new to this.”

“ _Your king_ is not,” Thor says, flustered, clearly embarrassed. “But that…”

“Not new to such an act, but new to its potential.” Heimdall repeats the motion, swiftly this time. Thor’s gasp is haggard as one dying of thirst. “How will my king fare when it is not a simple hand, but something greater provoking this potential?”

“Your king,” Thor’s voice breaks. “welcomes the challenge, should you still find him worthy of… _Norns_ …” The moan that tears from Thor’s lips does not sound like him. It is too high, cracking with need. The sound stirs something in Heimdall. Longing, and the need to put things to right at once.

Heimdall is loyal to the crown, but loyal in equal measure to this man. This mere boy in years, but a king in every measure that counts. It is a strange, new realization. Thor will have Heimdall’s sword and his gift of sight. He will have Heimdall’s trust too, his love, and - if necessary- his dying breath.

When Heimdall withdraws, Thor reacts with concern. He lifts his head, alarm in his gaze. “Wait, please-”

“Be patient,” Heimdall reminds him. On his knees between Thor’s thighs, Heimdall re-slicks his hand. Prostrated in Thor’s full view, he touches himself. His cock, already stiffened by the simple sensation of joined skin, swells hotter. Thor’s one-eyed stare loses its panic. Realization turns his look dark and draws his lip into his mouth. As Heimdall touches himself, Thor worries his trapped lip intently.

“You will bruise yourself doing that,” Heimdall tells him.

Thor makes a thoughtful sound. “A mark of honor, I think,” he says. Heimdall shakes his head. But in truth, his king bearing proof of this night on his skin warms Heimdall in ways that few things have.

In little time, Heimdall is ready. Thor waits for him, his loosened hole stretched wide, oil dribbling from its reddened rim. Gently, Heimdall urges Thor's waist higher. “You will tell me if you feel pain,” Heimdall says, watching his face.

Thor nods. “You have my word.” He smiles. “But I will not.”

Heimdall takes his time, eyes fixed to Thor’s face. Thor’s swollen mouth slacks and his good eye swims. Color warms him from throat to chest.

“How are you?” Heimdall asks. His words drag under the effort of keeping his pace gentle. Thor is marvelously tight. Breaching him is like pressing into strength itself. Heimdall’s need to protect wars with his desire to bed Thor truly. To bear his strength upon Thor and feel Thor’s unknowable power flex. Heimdall would never. But the temptation is great, and Thor, groaning under him, provokes without thought.

Thor blows out a weak breath. “Please,” he gasps, “I need more of you.”

“Be patient,” Heimdall says.

“I’m done with patience,” Thor grouses, hands flat on Heimdall’s thighs. “Please. Do not withhold yourself from me, Heimdall. Trust me.”

Forcing out a breath, Heimdall carefully lowers himself. “I trust you with my life,” Heimdall tells him. Restraint trembles through his body and draws a frustrated hiss from Thor. 

“And your body? Do you trust me with that as well?” Thor rakes fingers down Heimdall’s thighs. “Please,” he says.

Long though Heimdall’s life, his resolve can only withstand so much. He allows Thor what he seeks, pressing Thor deeper into the bed sheets. Thor groans beneath him, hands at Heimdall’s sides. Between them, Thor’s heavy cock already leaks. Heimdall takes it in his hand. It is thick and good in his grasp. He thumbs at the crown until Thor shudders around him. Heimdall shifts, and Thor gasps. Everything he does, Thor feels. Everything Thor does, he feels.

Thor is a pulse of power, unfathomable despite the many wonders Heimdall has seen. It is one thing to watch but another to feel. Thor’s strength flows under his skin as it lived in the very soil of Asgard. In him, Heimdall feels the lineage of kings. As violent as dark magic, pure as the storm.

Heimdall gives Thor what he seeks, what he does not even know he asks for. He does not withdraw. Buried in Thor, Heimdall stays, punctuated by deep, snapped thrusts. Thor’s breaths stagger through bite-reddened lips. Heimdall strokes his cock between their bellies. Thor hisses, wonder in his eye.

Heimdall drives in again, and Thor moans without restraint. Sparks of energy crackle through Heimdall’s back. Again, and Thor arches. His power teeters between pain and perfection. Thor’s eye glows an unnatural white. Lightning streaks across his skin like a flash storm in the warm season. Thor’s bottom lip catches between his teeth. It is endearing, a mark of inexperience under the awesomeness of his power.

Heimdall takes Thor’s hands in his own. Energy sparks off his fingertips and dances up Heimdall’s wrists. Heimdall pins them to his sides. His body moves under their joined hands. Thor makes a quiet sound.

Shocks of energy course through Heimdall’s body as Thor shatters. Thor’s power dances across his chest and shivers up his arms. Thor is beautiful and worthy, and it takes little effort to follow him. Thor sighs when he is filled, his single eye slow to focus.

Heimdall is gentle as he withdraws. He begins to climb from the mattress but instead sinks to the sheets at Thor’s side. Thor’s heavy arm slings around his waist. Half above him, Heimdall lower for a kiss. Thor’s groan sounds pleased; wearily, he fingers Heimdall’s spine.

“Was that too much?” Heimdall asks.

Thor chuckles. “It was just enough,” he slurs. “My power - it has never done that before. I tried to control it, but-”

“Next time, perhaps you will not expend so much energy on restraint,” Heimdall says. “Save it for other things.”

“Other things,” Thor echoes drowsily. “Next time, yes.”

Heimdall kisses the bite-swollen patch of his lower lip. Thor mumbles approval, and his arm tightens around Heimdall’s waist.

This is his king, Heimdall tells himself, his golden gaze taking in all. The boisterous boasts of an arrogant youth turned into what Heimdall sees now. A man of great burden and purpose, one who Heimdall is somehow seeing again for the first time.

This is his king, Heimdall tells himself, and he is at peace.

*The End*


End file.
